of her man and Mrs. Dana seemed searching, in a blur of
moving men upon a weary road, for a little boy--a very little boy.

"Now, then," Noreen insisted, "we can sing it betterer this time.

"Green jacket, red cap
And white owl's feather."

Suddenly Noreen stopped.

"Your face looks funny," she said. "Your lips are laughing, but your
eyes--is it the sun in your eyes?"

Mrs. Dana bent until her head was close to Noreen's.

"Little girl, little Noreen," she said, "that is it--the sun is in my
eyes."

"There's the inn!" Noreen was uncomfortable. Things were not turning
out quite as gaily as she hoped. Things did not, any more.

"Shall I go right to the door with you?" she asked.

"No. I want to go alone. Good-bye, Noreen."

"I hope you'll stay a long time!" Noreen paused on the road.

"Why, dear?"

"Because Motherly liked you, and I like you. Good-bye."

And Mrs. Dana stayed a long time, though after the first week her
sojourn was marked by incidents, not hours.

"Seems like the days of the creation," Peter confided to Twombley.
"Let there be light--there was light! Get the Forest to work--and the
Forest gets busy! Heard the church is going to be opened--and a
school. Queer, Twombley, how her being a woman and the easy sort, too,
doesn't seem to stop her none."

Twombley shifted in his chair--the two men were sitting in the spring
sunshine by Twombley's door.

"The Government's behind her!" he muttered confidently. "And,
Heathcote, I ain't monkeying with the Government. Since that Maclin
night--anything the Government asks of me, I hold up my hands."

"Yes, I reckon that's safest." Peter was uplifted, but cautious.

"She's set Peneluna to painting all the houses--yeller," Twombley
rambled on, the smell of fresh paint filling his nostrils. "And you
know what Peneluna is when she gets a start. Colour's mighty
satisfying, Peneluna says; but I guess there's more in it than just
colour. The Pointers get touchy about dirt, and creepy insects showing
up on the 'tarnal paint that's slushed everywhere."

"Mighty queer doings!" Heathcote agreed.

"The women are plumb crazy over this government woman," Twombley went
on, "and the children lap out of her hand. She and Mary-Clare are
together early and late. Thick as corn mush."

Peter drew his chair closer.

"Her and Mary-Clare is writing up the doings of the Forest," he
whispered. "Writing things allas makes me nervous. What's writ--is
fixed."